


Thicker than Water

by Scrumpadouchus



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Demon Deals, Flashbacks, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Vore, Young! Characters in the flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 08:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumpadouchus/pseuds/Scrumpadouchus
Summary: "I wonder - how can you receive the attention you deserve... while your brother is in the way?"Draven finally takes Tahm up on his offer.





	Thicker than Water

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Many thanks to my friends in The Trash Chat for helping me flesh out this story. The idea was conceived in a discord chat almost a year ago as a joke, but then took on a life of its own. Originally this was going to go in a completely different sort of plot, but after perusing through every piece of canon content available, then reading all the developer threads about the characters, _then_ dwelling on it for four months, I realised I had to change directions.  
> Will I rewrite this later entirely? _Probably._
> 
> ALSO, before you start, know that there is no canon-stated ages for these characters, though fandom has generally agreed on ~7-8 years difference between Draven and Darius, with Quill being the same age as Darius, _probably_. Their comic seems to be congruent with this, so that's what I decided to run with.
> 
> **** EDIT 02.09.19 - The young Draven art I commissioned by the wonderful Sena can now all be seen here: https:// oxiente.tumblr.com/post/187446293807/commissions-i-did-to-the-adorable-scrumpadouchus (just remove the space)  
> please check her out! She's the absolute best.

\----------------

_._

“ _Draven, stop_!” 

Draven lowers the knife and looks over his shoulder at the sound of his older brother drawing nearer. He hadn’t been expecting him to be back from scavenging for supper so soon. His stomach growls, a late reminder; the hand not holding the knife slides over his own bumpy ribs, hovering over his hollow stomach his loose clothes hide so well. 

“What?” Draven glares back at him. _Couldn’t Dar tell he was in the middle of something_? 

Darius is frowning disapprovingly at him but didn’t try to take back the weapon. The raggedy child cowering in the corner of the alley stares wide-eyed back and forth between the two of them, then kicks Draven hard in the stomach with a dirty foot. 

Draven drops his knife and doubles over as the air was abruptly forced out of his lungs, then the child rolls out from under him and scrambles away as fast as his thin limbs would allow; little expirations of panicked breathing the only sound he made as he disappeared back out into the crowded street. 

“I gave that to you so you could protect yourself when I wasn’t around. Not to go stabbing other kids with no provocation. What if somebody caught you hurting him and punished you?” Darius reprimands with the tedious impatience of someone having to repeat the same lesson time and time again without it being heeded. His teenage face already forming the faint imprint of lines against his forehead and between the eyes. 

Draven pulls himself back up, slow to speak while still catching his breath. When his diaphragm stopped seizing he picked his knife back up from the ground, inspected it a moment, then wiped the dirt off of it in his pant leg. 

“Nobody would care,” he says with all the confidence of experience, “- and besides, he tried to steal my top.” His precious collection of wood baubles was small but commendable. Darius had given him the wooden top too last winter – though he had no clue as to whether it was stolen, personally carved or bought. He himself had stolen dice too from a drunk man he found passed out one night at the waterfront, and it was one of his prized possessions in his collection- _after the knife_ , of course. 

“Ah, a thief.” Darius nods like he understands, and Draven feels a flood of relief. If he was lucky and played this well, he wouldn’t get anything confiscated this time. 

“Yeah! I couldn’t just let him do that, right? I’m a kid too but he tried to steal from us. He should learn to pick his fights better.” Though that was _a bit_ of a fib. The boy had walked up to him playing and asked to hold his top and give it a spin himself, but Draven just _knew_ that the other had been lying - the moment it was in his hands he would have run, and what belonged to _Draven_ wasn’t to be touched by anyone else! - _Except for by his brother, of course_ , but even then with some reluctance. 

Darius purses his lips and Draven stands stiffly, waiting for his judgement. Darius looked to be debating saying something else, but eventually sighs and shakes his head. 

Finally, he reached into his jacket and pulled a round, flakey bun. “Are you hungry? I got us supper.” 

“Oh! Meat buns?!” He reaches out greedily for his bun, only for Darius to raise his arm to hold it up high, slightly out of his reach even if he jumped for it. 

“Be more careful next time.” Darius says sternly, and Draven nods earnestly; eyes trained on the food, mouth already salivating. He hadn’t eaten since his half an apple at breakfast. 

“Yes. I will.” He kept his hands out in a façade of patience and Darius slowly lowered the bun he had been holding out of reach, only to shove it into his own mouth once it got low enough to be grabbed, taking half of it in one bite. Before Draven could whine however, his brother pulls a slightly bigger one out from his jackets inside pocket and drops it into Draven’s cupped hands. _It was still warm_. 

“Here.” He says, voice muffled from a mouthful of food. “After it gets dark we’ll go out and try to get some gold… we don’t have much left, and I want new clothes for us before winter.” 

Draven nodded, too busy stuffing his face to care. Darius was weird to worry about that stuff. Honestly, he was a _drag_. If he had it his way, he’d be out on his own, making his own path with the knife and his own wits. _The strong ate the weak, or so said Dar. If that was so, what was stopping them from taking what they wanted from their competition_ ? Nobody on the port-city streets was better than Dar, he _had_ to know that. Strange that his brother would be so passive, but maybe there was something to it. 

He rapidly chews and swallows the last bite of the bun. _Done feeling empty, for now_. 

Darius gestures to him, and he folds the knife closed and slips in-step to walk beside him. 

_Someday though, someday things would go his way_ . 

-=-=--=--=--=-=-= 

Draven just felt so _unsatisfied_. 

The sand-stone heights of the arena are broken only with stern slate pillars, hanging banners of red, gold and black. Throngs of people crowd the stands, packed from the front row hovering a hundred feet above the stage, thirty levels of seating surrounding the set of the fleshing. His own shaded pavilion oversaw it all, though today he was taking a more _personal_ stance. 

The Colosseum, his throne, _his seat where he reigns supreme_. 

Even though the arena was ten times more entertaining than the military during peacetime, it was slowly starting to _drag_. Crowds cheered for him and loved him as they always had, but the criminals he was put up against now weren’t traitor soldiers with fight left in them but were rather thieves, petty murderers - _and sometimes if he was lucky_ \- a noble or politician found to be corrupt. 

The best part was when they were shoved into the arena dressed still in fine clothes. They’d panic trying to run in their cumbersome tunics and would often trip and rip their fine silks. 

Mostly though, they had no hope left in them and went down too fast for it to be any challenge. People watching from the stands cheered all the same, but the energy was so much _better_ when they had a fighting chance and the _drive_ to survive. 

_It was boring_ . 

Draven flicks his ponytail over his shoulder, he can feel the thick dark hair tickling the mid-back slits in his tunic. 

This day was like any other. The man forced out into the arena by the guards was a man who had broken into a house, killed the owner and then burgled anything worth taking. Draven twirls an axe and prepares to give his _usual_ spiel. 

“I’ll give you a chance! Fight me and win, or escape through the door behind me and you will go free. It’s an offer I give to everyone I see here.” He gestures behind the man at the various weapons laying on the table set up against the back wall, and then begins to juggle his own axes, starting real slow. Some people in the audience cheer, while another yells out for him to _get to the action already_! 

“All in good time!” He shouts up to the crowd. “Let’s give our new contestant some time to make his decision. Let’s say…. Five seconds?” He grins as the burglar’s head shoots up in alarm before he dives towards the table. 

“Five…!” The man starts frantically thumbing through the contents of the table. 

“Four…!” Draven starts spinning his axes faster. The sun-bleached dirt starts to get stirred from the speed of the whirling. 

“Three…!” The crowd was joining in now, their voices a roar all around them. 

“Two…!” The burglar settles on a short sword and gives it a few practise swipes before backing away from the table and turning to face him. The weapon trembles in his grip. Draven takes small, slow steps forward, and sees the fear in his opponent’s eyes. _This wouldn’t take long_. 

_How disappointing. Who would take a sword to an axe fight_ ? * 

“One!!” 

The man keeps his distance, eyes trained on the spinning axes. Draven walks towards his opponent with confidence and the man appears to brace himself, holding his sword across his body in a defensive stance. 

Draven manages to wait a few more deeply anticipated seconds before chucking his first axe. As expected, the burglar was prepared for that and dove out of the way fairly easily as the blade dug into the ground. 

What he _wasn’t_ prepared for was the second axe. There’s no _drama_ if it’s done too fast - he threw so it only chipped the shoulder - much to the disappointed groan of the watching crowd. 

“Hey hey hey… we can’t have the fight end so soon right?” Draven addresses the crowd while pulling his spare axe off his back. The burglar has gotten sloppy with the gash on his shoulder and didn’t even think of grabbing either axe lying at his feet before running to get away. Draven had hoped he would’ve - _nothing_ got people riled up more than someone daring to chuck _his_ axe _back_ at him. 

Draven stalks to the discarded weapon and pulls it out of the rusty colosseum soil, gives it a little spin, then picks up its twin. _Still a small splotch of blood on the blade_. 

The burglar is keeping his distance but appeared to have lost most of his confidence after just one small wound. _Not surprising, but disappointing all the same_. 

“What, lost your courage now that you’re against someone who can fight back?” Draven taunts, and tosses another axe. This time the other attempts to catch it, manages to grab the handle, but the man gets thrown off by the momentum and he has to spin around to stop it from hitting himself in the arm. It left his back exposed; Draven chucks his second axe and cleaves him in the spine. The man howls as he falls. 

“Giving up?” Draven tilts his head, spins his axe with another flourish. He walks over to the man and pulls out the axe that had been in his back. It makes a gristly _crunch_. 

The man squeals like a wounded pig, eyes nearly popping out of his head as Draven approaches, but doesn’t move. _Perhaps he wasn’t able to_. Draven wasn’t a doctor, but from experience he could say that most of his opponents never got back up after they got an axe to the back. 

“How boring.” He gives the axe a brief whirl in the air before catching it and bringing it down onto the man’s neck. 

Silence now from the burglar, but the crowd erupted in cheers. 

Draven grins for the crowd, bows with his axes lifted high, but internally a yawn fights to bubble free. 

_So typical._

_Didn’t anyone offer a challenge anymore_ ? _Was this all that there was_? 

  


-=-=-===--=-=-=-=-=-=- 

  


“Dari, those people are here again.” Quiletta has just turned the corner, half out of breath, whispering to his brother as if it’s any secret that adults come to parade past the kids. _It’s an orphanage. Duh, that was the point_. 

Her blonde hair shone lighter than gold, like the strands of silk from corn. Her blue eyes are the sky, but they always looked at Dar like he was the world. 

Both his brother and Quill take a few steps back and peer around the corner to stare down the next corridor. Draven looks back to his wooden horse, walks it along the orphanage’s scratched and battered wooden floors. _It needs a partner, and then a friend_. He could check the other kids’ cubbies later today… they were too dumb to notice if he touched their stuff. Then they’re back next to him again; _Dar looks like he swallowed something sour_. 

“Draven, can you go play in our bedroom?” Darius nudges him with his boot, uncomfortably rooting him off his knees and onto his bum. 

“No! The horses live here, not in the -“ 

“Do as I say Draven, or I’ll take your horse away.” 

_He’s sterner_ . Draven stands up, pouting and stamps his feet the whole way back to the bedroom. Darius shuts their bedroom door on him, barring him inside. Draven kicks the door once but it doesn’t budge, so instead he runs towards his and Darius’ bunk and tosses himself onto it. He punches and kicks into the mattress until his arms get tired and he flops face first into the pillow, smothering his whining. His brother was so _unfair_! 

Hitting the mattress gets boring fast. 

Making exaggerated sniffles, Draven crawls off their bed and creeps towards the door. _It had to have been five minutes by now, right_? 

Their arguing could be heard through the door, even though they were whispering. _Keeping secrets from him? Not on his watch_. 

“ – do we do? People have been coming around looking for older girls too, you know. Buying them for free housekeepers... or _worse_. You’re too _old_ Dari, you’ll be eleven by the time summer hits. The most you’ll get is being sold to the army if you stay, or to some farm for labour. The only reason you haven’t been yet is because Draven _only_ listens to you.” 

“You’re resisting Ms. Sani? The streets aren’t any place for a girl, Quill, you know that. Even being owned by a brothel would be better.” 

“It’s _my_ choice, and I’m not leaving you, _either_ of you. You _know_ that. But it’ll start getting harder soon if we wait any longer. Besides me there’s only Dian and Sara as older girls left, and Sara is already spoken for. She leaves in a few days, once the family pays up.” 

_Boring. No good secrets. Quill and his brother sure like acting like they were adults_ . Draven slips off the bed and picks up the wooden horse he’d dropped earlier to the floor, then plops onto his hands and knees and starts peeking under the other beds to search for stashed toys. 

Darius’s sigh is loud enough to be heard through the door. 

_Nothing under the first two beds_ … 

“Draven’s still young enough, that couple wants to adopt him as a _son_. You overheard them talking to Sani in her office last week, then back again _twice_ this week. They gave him that toy, he hasn’t let go of it since. It could be a better life for him.” 

“Yes, it could. It’d be a more certain life than ours. But… are you _okay_ with this?” 

A long pause. Draven thinks his brother is ignoring her at first, but finally he speaks; 

“…They’ll find out he’s special eventually. _Anything_ could happen to him after, and I promised I wouldn't leave him. I _promised_ , Quill.” 

Draven puffs out his chest. Darius was right – he was special! The most talented, smartest, _fastest_ kid in the orphanage. He’d grow up to rule the world, he just _knew_ it. 

Quill replies a little louder than her previous whispers, almost in a desperate rush. 

“They might not. It might be a _good_ life. He could grow out of it! They had money, Dari. More than we’ll ever see. If he’s safe, what’s stopping us then? We could go anywhere -” 

“ – Stop, Quill. Just stop.…I don’t know. It should be his choice.” 

_Jackpot_ !! There is another stick-like horse under the mattress of one of the beds pushed up next to the wall. Draven grips it in grubby fingers. _Finally_. He didn’t need to hear his brother arguing in the background anymore. 

He races them on the floor until the bedroom door reopens. 

Quiletta is biting her lower lip, picking at her patchy petticoat. Darius stands beside her, tall and straight-backed. Stretchmarks could be seen where the second-hand tunic hung too low to cover skin. 

“Draven,” he slowly says as he drops to one knee, a deeper seriousness on his face than the time Darius had caught him with a knife he’d stolen from the kitchen. His dark brown eyes don’t waver, matching hair cut short to the inch - Quiletta’s messy scissors had struck again. Draven reaches out and tries to balance his toy amongst the strands, but it’s not even long enough to reach the knees of the horse. 

His brother gently pushes his hand away from his head, makes him look back at him. 

_“Do you want to leave here with us tonight?”_

=-=-=--=-=-=-=- 

Some soldiers lived in barracks. Others lived in overcrowded houses with their wives and families. Draven had no wife to support or tykes leeching off him, which meant he would _normally_ be living alone and free in a small apartment somewhere in the city. 

Darius’s status as a famed Noxian General – one third of the ruling trio of the Country - meant he got to live in the core of the immortal Bastion, where he could be called upon by Swain or any snooty nobles at any given time. _But it wasn’t always like that_. Draven remembers living in crowded military barracks as a young child and being shoved around by the older men there, long after the fuzzy memories of their homeless early years, even longer after his not-remembered apparent stay at an orphanage. When Darius’s status got elevated and he was granted quarters at the fortress, Draven was somehow allowed to come with him - something that he had pondered as a passing thought before discarding it as _coincidence_ \- and eventually got his own room moved to a more _private_ area of the immortal bastion. 

It was without much fanfare that he returns _home_. 

His room is empty. No candles are lit. Dust covers the shelves filled with his trophies of _conquest_ , flashy things obtained from battles or from what hot women in the stands would throw down to him at the Colosseum. 

_Here tonight, then again tomorrow. This forever, until some opponent gets lucky in the arena, or until a single soldier gets lucky in the next war_ . 

Far from his ambitions as a child, ending up here night after night. Scowling, Draven grabs his coin-purse and heads back out the door, ignores the still hot-meal waiting for him on his drum-table -delivered by some servant a little _too_ familiar with his schedule. 

His limbs jitter, he wants to _run_ , throw his axes at something better than a dummy, fight for his life and come out on top, get the _rush_ that verified this existence. 

_When had it all gone wrong_ ? 

  
-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-== 

“So, we’re supposed to just listen to these old grandpas now?” Draven sits on the edge of the military-issue cot, kicking his feet. The barracks had hardly a metre of space between each bed, were too bustling to even hear himself think during daylight hours, and none of his ‘roommates’ had _anything_ worth stealing. He’d checked, _twice_. 

They’d agreed to join the military after his failed assassination attempt, and it’d been two months since. 

“When can we leave? They get us up every day before the sun comes up, and they make me do so many pointless things. Fetch things, deliver stuff, watch the Captain look at _maps_. We’re not even _fighting_ anyone.” He scoffs and drops onto his back on the cot, effectively ruining the neat bedmaking they had been judged on that morning. _Not that he ever slept in it anyway_. 

“Captain Cyrus gave us this chance. We’re not going to be ungrateful.” Darius continues staring at the thin book he’d borrowed from the captain. 

“At least _you_ get to practise with weapons. This place is dumb; Quill doesn’t even room with us anymore, don’t you miss her?” 

Darius’s face tightens as he puts the book down, eyes distant a mere moment. “Of course, but – “ 

“ – we could go somewhere else! Go to a new city, the rules here are dumb anyway!” 

_Finally, he lays the stupid leather-bound tinder-scrap aside_ . 

“You would have _died_ , Draven. If we hadn’t agreed, they would have killed you. Maybe even all of us; you, me _and_ Quill.” 

“No they wouldn’t have! they said we had potential - !” 

“Just because we had potential doesn’t mean we aren’t replaceable. To them, we’re nothing.” 

He glares over at his brother. _Why didn’t Darius understand? Wasn’t he supposed to be smart_? 

“You’re stupid, _they’re_ stupid. They hardly give us any food, they don’t let us go out to the city –“ 

“We get Sundays off -” 

“ – They’re not even training _me!_ I’m left to throw knives at a dummy in my free time while you and Quill get to do _fun stuff_ like fighting other guys, or learning how to use all sorts of cool weapons.” 

Darius puts his hand to his forehead, kneads at his temples. 

“Listen, we’ve been over this, you’re too _young_. I thought you’d be happy here, there’s a few others boys around your age, kids from good families here to page until squire-hood. It should at least occupy your time. It’ll be good for you – ” 

“ – I don’t _care_ about what’s good for me, I want to learn to fight with you! I’ve killed men! You _know_ I’ve killed plenty – “ 

His voice is climbing, others relaxing in the barracks are starting to stare. He’s used to their annoyed looks. Darius shoots him a look that clearly screams ‘ _lower your voice’_ , but then just shushes him. 

“You’ve killed but you’re still _small_. The smallest armour they have won’t even _fit_ you yet, a regulation-size sword, axe or lance is too heavy for you to lift, let alone swing it.” 

“Nu-uh it wouldn’t be! I’ll prove it to you, right now! I’ll prove it to them too!” 

Draven jumps to his feet, arms rod-straight and fists at his side. Darius like-wise stands, still over a foot taller, creased face making him look much older than his sixteen summers. Draven scowls. 

“ – Yes, it _would._ We already tried, remember? Listen, it’ll only be three or four years until you’ve grown enough. Isn’t having place at least with a proper roof good enough?” 

“That’s too long! That’s _forever_!” 

“It’s how it has to be.” Darius’ jaw sets, a sign he is ready for the conversation to be over. Draven shakes his head, messy shoulder-length hair falling out of his hair-tie. 

“No! I’m going to demand Captain Cyrus takes use of me. They’re wasting my _talent_. If I talk to them, they’ll see how stupid they’re being.” 

He slips past Darius’s grab, ignores the yell of _Draven_! and slams the door on his way out. He sprints out of the barracks onto the army grounds lit by scattered torches. The badlands of the Noxian Capital was trash compared to the greener, mountainous areas of Basilich. It had taken over a month to march here, and all his excitement had added up to nothing. A waste of his talent, of _both_ of their talent. 

The captain was in the biggest building of the fort with all the other dumb, stupid men. Seven are sitting around a hard-wood table, throwing dice and gold coins into the center felt. _Bearded fossils, past their prime_. 

“Hey!” Draven yells, and he barely gets through the door before an armed soldier runs in from behind, grabs him by the upper arm and yanks him up so hard he hears the joint click. 

“M’lords?” The soldier gets him into a headlock. “Are you expecting this visitor?” 

Draven digs his fingernails into the soldier’s arm, but the man is unphased. 

“Is this the feral orphan you had spoke of?” The red-bearded man asks, sitting proud with a gold breastplate. “I didn’t know we recruited urchins this young. Are you starting a nanny service on the side?” 

The surrounding men chuckle, some sending looks of derision towards him. Cyrus takes a swig of his stein then swallows slow, unphased. His withering stare joins the others to regard Draven. 

“They were… _unique_. I thought they could be of use to our army, but now I’m questioning my choice.” The wide, white scar running down the Captain’s face made his glare seem much sterner. His next words are much louder. 

“What’s so important, _boy_ , that you burst in here unannounced?” 

Draven kicks at the thighs of the man holding him, but he’s not let down. Grimacing, he pants; “It’s dumb that I don’t get to train like the others. You’re wasting my talent!” 

“Talent or not, you’re too small to fit into even our smallest set of armour. If you could waste years on the street as a dog, you can waste a few years waiting here as a stupid boy. Be grateful we house and feed you.” 

He waves a hand up flippantly at the guard. “Bring him back to his barracks. If he tries to interrupt us again, lock him in the lumber shed for the weekend.” 

“Wait.” Another man at the table stands, and Draven temporarily stills his kicking. His champion had salt-and pepper hair, a neatly trimmed beard, no cool-scar ripping him from maw to scalp like Cyrus. “Let me talk to the boy,” he says, “I have a _way_ with them.” 

Cyrus shrugs before throwing another chip into the center of the table; “As you wish.” 

The new man pushes back his chair and makes his way toward Draven as the dice game slowly resumes behind him. A gesture of his hand and the guard drags him just outside the Barrack’s door. Once outside he’s finally dropped to the dirt, and Draven glares at them both venomously while rubbing his yanked shoulder. 

“Who are you?” 

“I am Captain Eli. You must be the street urchin who’s skilled with throwing knives.” 

Draven lifts his chin, shows his teeth. Finally, some acknowledgement, it fills him with energy; he feels like he could run ten miles, could jump over the watchtower! 

“It’s _Draven_ , but yeah that’s me.” 

The Captain gestures sharply over his shoulder, and the guard salutes, then goes back to his patrol. Once he’s rounded the corner, Eli resumes speaking. 

“I think we can come to an agreement.” He says, tones deep and cold as well-water. “Cyrus is a fool to not use your brutality. You’re small for your age -but fast. I think I know an arrangement that could work for both of us, if you promise to keep it a secret. Think of it as… _training_.” 

“Secret special training?” Draven’s eyes gleam, he leans in, dropping his voice. “No one else would know?” 

“No one. It would be very unfortunate for you if anyone else finds out. Other recruits would get jealous, and the Captains would say I’m picking _favourites_ , you understand?” 

Draven nods vigorously, ready to clutch at the thread about to be dangled at him. The Captain stands like a warrior-poet in front of him, rich with his gleaming armour and gleaming power. Captain Eli roughly pulls him up off the ground by the arm, then looks down at him like a cat regards a mouse. 

“ _Now, just how good are you with that knife?”_

=-=-=-=-==--=-=-=- 

Even after four broken chairs, a broken table, countless smashed bottles and seven (and a half) broken noses, the bar still _refused_ to kick him out. _The cowards_!! The seediest, rowdiest water-front pub in the capital and no one could say _boo_ to his face. Whether it his fame, or their fear that allowed such privilege, it left a taste more sour than the low-quality alcohol. 

So he took upon himself to generously kick _himself_ out– _not like anybody was keeping his good company, anyway_. 

After closing his eyes and picking a random path, he starts his night-walk. The scenery is a portrait of dried out plantation, yellow grasses and bushes too bare to to support much foraging. Farming wasn't a popular profession in the capital. 

_Even this is boring now_ ! Not even the after-work bender provided a distractions salve to this restless ambition. This _wasn’t enough_. The whisky bottle pilfered from the fishmonger’s table has only a few ounces left. _Months, years of youth gone like the drink_. 

Was he the one rotting away in the Colosseum, rather than the bones of his opponents? _Funny if that were true, huh_? 

Draven cackles, sucks back the rest of the whisky. Belches, then grips it by the neck and throws it like an axe at a particularly sharp rock sticking out of the bank on the opposite side of the river. _Why not add to the pollution_? The run-off from the city flowed into it, leaving it brown, random food-scraps and waste floating down to eventually meet with the sea. There’s even a top-hat floating lazily down the river like a paper-boat, keeping fair pace with him. 

He steps a bit closer, squinting at the queer sight. _If he jumped in, he could grab it! River trash or not, it was a pretty slick hat_ . A foot away from the water he stops; it’s deeper than he thought, too. His boots and leggings he’d be okay with ruining with sewage water, but his gold-stitched tunic and head band… not so much. Perhaps he’d luck out and it’d run up on the bank during a bend or something. It wasn’t impossible. 

Things always worked out for _Draven_ , after all! 

He passes through a series of stern archways, dragging his hand against the steep black-slate while keeping the river in view. They’re slick with the humidity, leaving wet dark stripes from his fingers. Now he can see the burnt-brown of the steppes, the grass desert that surrounds the capital city. 

_Where was his brother right now? In some ancient stone room at the top of the immortal bastion, sleeping under a bunch of banners_ ? 

A waste of his talent. There hasn’t been a real war in _years_. Darius was doing his own rotting, except his infamous slaughtering was _much_ more well-known through-out the world than Draven’s work. He kicks the biggest stone in sight as hard as he could and sends it flying, skipping across the river with a splash. 

\- _And Quill. Fuck, Quill_? 

What good had that done her or her son? _His nephew and niece_? 

__

_Fuck her, and fuck what she did to Darius_ . _He wouldn’t accept an invite to drink for months_ – 

He stares at the hat again, for a moment it disappears from view, only for the river to curve back and resume its predictable pace alongside his footpath. 

… Well she got what she deserved, and now was rotting in a much more _literal_ way. 

_Shouldn’t have stood against Noxus. Another victory in Darius’ name_ . 

Draven gargles, then hacks up his spit. The thick, dehydrated wad doesn’t go far and drops to land on his own boot. The splatter stands out amongst the mud and rusty dark stains. _Kinda like him and his brother, amongst the other nobles they got to mingle with_ . 

Draven guffaws, smacks his own thigh and reaches for an axe off his back-straps. His hand closes around nothing. 

_Oh yeah! He’d left them embedded in the tavern wall_ . _Ah, did he sign them first_? The people _loved_ it when he scratched a pictograph of an axe onto the wooden handle of his axes. 

Ah well. He’d go back for them later. 

He walks along the river, sings some bawdy song about some maiden and a bear, but ends up making up half the words. 

After he got tired of loudly repeating the chorus for the _nth_ time, he rubs his bleary eyes and _stops_. 

He’s at a bridge, the dirt path finally getting its chance to pass above the channel and reach the other side. Draven squints among the dark summer fog, the mist rolling in off the water. 

He’d gone the wrong direction, away from town, towards the Ionian sea. 

_Huh_ . 

The bridge creaks the second he steps on it. Not often people came this way on foot. No point to. People usually head upstream to take advantage of the cleaner water, not down. A few steps more and the groaning of the damp wood, nails peeling out of the rotting pulp was enough to stop him from going further. 

Goosebumps raise up his arms, the air easily had dropped a few degrees, even with his body running hot with drink. On reflex his hand reaches for an axe; only to remember again that he had left them at the bar. 

He looks over the edge of the bridge, back down to the river. The top hat is nowhere to be seen. He’s in the middle of nowhere, but it smelt like he was at the gutting wharf on a hot day. 

_Back to the city, maybe. It’s late, he should return_ – to his empty room, trapped in time. 

Stumbling, his first steps get caught up in the uneven planks of the bridge. Catching himself on a rail, Draven waits for his head to stop spinning. 

_You deserve more. Isn’t that what you’re thinking_ ? 

Draven abruptly turns, half-tripped on the same plank. The hair on his arms are standing straight up at attention, mirror to the prickling at his neck. The mist has become as thick as pea-stew, opaque grey that seeps over the bridge, and he can hardly see a foot in front of him. 

_What was there to be afraid of_ ? He is _Draven_ , king of the arena! Even unarmed he was a near-impossible man to beat. Lady Luck has _always_ favoured him. 

Fears gone, he leers forward, steps with a lumbering swagger. 

“I’m the best there’s ever been! _Of course_ I deserve more.” He squints further into the mist. “Are you a fan? Hah, you caught me out, I don’t have any autographed axes on me!” 

The creeping fog slides insidiously past his feet, slithering slow over the opposite side of the bridge to tumble back onto the water. 

Now he can make out a dark shape is standing opposite him. Stout, but also _towering_ at least a third taller than himself if he was guessing. He’d seen giants before; fought against some at the arena. Now he _really_ wished he had his axes. 

The rickety-bridge shakes as the creature laughs straight from the belly. It sounds human, but smooth like old money, like ancient entitlement. The accent was not of Noxus; it rumbles like a Bilgewater lord. 

“Perhaps you can call me a fan. I _have_ been watching you, to put it one way. Your ambition is … admirable. Your hunger for attention is much, _much_ more than what a single nation can provide.” 

“Yeah, so?” He belches, re-tastes the cheap whisky, then rolls his shoulders. “What’s your point?” 

The wind picks up, or perhaps – the back of his mind wonders; _it’s something else entirely_ \- but the mist finally slinks away, ebbing back enough for him to finally see his addressor. 

A giant frog. Or a fish, maybe, standing on two legs and with two arms. Clothed in an old brown dress-coat, undershirt, cufflinks and all, at the tip of this iceberg perched the thread-bare black top hat. The creature twirled what could be considered its mustache as it remarked him, with gleaming kelp-yellow eyes. 

Then it grins, dagger teeth bore friendlily as if it wasn’t a walking fish with the mouth of a shark standing but two metres away from him. 

_Yup. He had to be dreaming. Classic drunken Draven dream_ . No way could something like that actually exist, not a twenty-minute walk from the city’s edge. 

“I can help you become known all ‘round the _world_ without having t’move an inch. If you’d be so _kind,_ of course _,_ t’hear my offer.” 

The _world_? 

His mouth is watering. Draven swallows his saliva, smirks. 

If this was a dream, then there’d be no reason to not hear this thing out. 

“M’listening.” 

“I wonder – how can you receive the attention you deserve… while your brother is in the way? With my help the world would know your face, your name in every history book… Your brother has this honour, has had it _all_ his life. Why shouldn’t you get a _taste_?” He pulls the words smooth and slow off his tongue like a thick, warm taffy. 

“It’d be an _easy_ fix. I would clear the path for you, so t’speak. You’d just have to _walk_ it.” 

Draven licks his lips, leans a little forward. The creature does the same. 

“How much you asking?” 

“ _Money_? Naw, what I want won’t cost you anythin’ on your person _._ ” 

If not money, what else was there left to offer? This fish was a fool to offer so much for so little. But it was a fish after all, a lesser being, probably couldn’t think up a good deal. This would be easy then. 

“Sounds good. _Draven_ is in.” 

The creature tilts his head, slimy mustache slightly curling up. 

“…You do not wish to hear my terms?” 

“Nah, sounds good to me. You seem like an honest frog.” 

A smile stretches back across it’s grotesque face, a maw that stretched from ear to ear. The creature holds out a hand choked with gold rings, punctured with jewels. 

“Do we have a _deal_?” 

Draven takes the catfish’s hand without hesitation. 

“Deal.” 

They shake. The hand is cold and slimy enough for him to know it’ll leave a film, and the shaking brief. When they withdraw, there’s an immaterial tug at his chest, dragging towards the stranger. He looks down, pulls down his tunic just to check, nothing. 

Was there something he was forgetting? Draven pokes his chest muscles – _glorious and defined_ \- while waiting for his muddy thoughts to move into action. _Finally_ it hits him; 

“So, when do I become … _extra_ … famous?” 

There’s no reply. 

He looks back up. 

Nobody on the other side of the bridge. He’s alone. 

_Duh,_ it was a _dream_. 

Draven chuckles to himself while shaking his head. 

_As if a fish could walk on land_ . 

-=-=-=--=-=-== 

It’s at least past the witching hour. No one in the barracks should be still awake, and the guards aren’t that vigilant. He had even shoved a few pillows and bags under the blankets, made them Draven shaped. A genius move on his part. Sneaking back should be _easy-peasy_. 

Tosses his tiny satchel of coins over the stone wall, climbs up over after with minimal wincing. Captain Eli was fine with putting his skills to use. He _believed_ in him, not like Captain Cyrus or Quill, or his _brother_. He’d managed to kill two of the competitors tonight, and the third surrendered after a few good knife throws. Noxian fighting rings paid well, Captain Eli said this was good enough training for him until he was old enough to join the rest of the younger recruits, so long as he kept it a _secret_. 

He could do that! He was the _best_ at keeping secrets. The cuts and bruises he could easily hide. 

Creeps past the cackling torches, presses against buildings and hugs the shadows. The night guards are too stupid to see him; he slips past easily. 

Then, limps into their barracks. It was a Sunday, he’d be able to sleep in. The hinges squeak when he tries silently pushing the heavy-oak door open. Grimacing, he slips inside. The roughly stacked logs don’t let in much light. 

Everyone seems to be sleeping. Draven grins. _Got away with it again_. 

Sneaks back to his cot, near the back of the barracks with slow, sliding steps. The floor hardly creaks, even better. 

_Oh, his clothes_ . _Damn_ – no time to wash the blood out of them. They’d gotten torn tonight too, he didn’t know how to do any of that girly sewing stuff. _Maybe he could track down Quill and ask her in the morning to help_ ? Yeah, that would work. He had one extra set anyway that he could wear for now. 

It’s black as pitch by their corner of the Barracks. Draven already has his shirt pulled off, creeps over towards his bunk. Lifts up the scratchy blankets, removes the bundle of clothes and duffle bag that was pretend-him. 

“Draven.” A quiet voice from the right of him. Draven to his credit doesn’t jump but flicks his head quick, hand clutching his coin purse in one hand, the hilt of his knife in the other. 

He drops the pouch behind his back onto the bed, as if it wouldn’t be noticed. 

“Why are you up?” Draven asks, hardly bothering to whisper. Darius shushes him before grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him in against his chest. Draven drops the knife; it clatters loudly against the wooden floor while air leaves his lungs in an _oomph_. 

“I was up all-night waiting for you.” 

“But I was here asleep this whole time!” 

“Uh huh. So this is the first night in nine years that you choose not to sleep with me?” His tone skeptical. “Stop lying -you’re bleeding everywhere. Where were you?? What happened?” 

“None of your business.” Draven snaps back; Darius is practically crushing his spine and ribs in this forced embrace. He pushes away vehemently, but his elder brother is stronger. 

“It _is_ my business. Whose else would it be? Now where _were_ you?” 

_Why was he so overbearing_ ? He was _fine_ , didn’t his brother know him at all? Trust in his talent at all? 

“The pits.” He replies, puffing out his chest. _No point to lie_. “I won, look!” Points to the tiny satchel of gold. “They were older than me, but I still beat them. We can buy extra food with this, they’re only giving us half-rations here. Captain Eli says that if I win a few more sets, I can join you in training early -” 

Darius’s body freezes up, and Draven finally slips free of his wooden arms. His brother looks washed out in the moonlight. 

“ – You were fighting other kids?” He echoes. “On the Captain’s orders?” 

Draven snorts. 

“I’m not a kid! The oldest was ten-and-three, he thought he was so _great_ just because he was taller and heavier than me.” Draven huffs, a quiet chuckle. “But I showed him.” 

Darius’s lips draw into a line. Jaw clenched. 

“You can’t go anymore. I won’t allow it.” 

“You can’t stop me! I’m the best fighter there, soon everyone will be too wuss to fight me. Then it’ll be easy money. Basilich never had _anything_ like this. Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all!” 

He doesn’t reply to that. Draven waits, retort ready on the tongue, but Darius shakes his head, withdraws to climb back onto his cot before eventually saying; 

“Okay. If you say so.” 

Draven pauses; then steps hesitantly towards the cot. “So… I’m allowed?” 

“I can’t stop you if you want to go.” 

_Why was his brother like this_ ?? Couldn’t he see, this was a good thing! Now the thrill of the win was curdling, making him look back at the experience with distaste. The fresh cuts that lined his arms and back, the thin sword he had barely dodged while the adults cheered – had it been worth it? 

_Of course it was. Darius was just being stupid_ . _The gold, the glory; that was all that mattered_. 

On instinct, he slips forward and lifts the covers of Darius’ cot. A hand immediately smacked him away. Draven growls back in return, a scorned cat. 

“If you’re going to be sneaking out all night, you’re going to sleep in your own bed. You keep me up enough with your kicking and tossing. I _actually_ have training in the morning.” 

He teeters on his feet, eyes shifting back and forth from Darius and the cot. This wasn’t fair, why was Darius being so cold? 

Draven bristles, setting his shoulders. _If Darius didn’t want him there, then what did he care_? He must be jealous; the Captain said it would happen if he told people. 

“Fine! I don’t need to anyway.” 

Darius continues lying there, back facing him. _Ignoring him_. 

He bears his teeth briefly, then climbs back into his own bed. Flails around, beating at the mattress and wool blankets trying to get comfortable. It doesn’t feel right; the dust makes his nose run and it smells like a stranger. 

One last glance over shows his brother asleep, his back to the world. 

_Fine then._

_He doesn’t care_ . 

Draven tries to flop over onto the bed, but he ends up staring at the wall until the birds announce their awakening. 

Eventually the other teens in the barracks stir and stretch too, getting up to start their day, wanting first picks at the mess-hall. Draven squeezes his eyes shut, tries to keep his breaths even. Pretending to be asleep wasn’t that hard, he had _tons_ of practise. 

Movement from the left of him, his brother’s telltale sleepy groan, his grunts as he stretches. Familiar footfalls, _his brother is walking between their beds_. Draven waits, holds his breath. _Surely he’d do something now, make a move. Poke his forehead, drop an extra blanket – that way he’d know he was forgiven_ . All their fights ended like this, in a cold stalemate. Darius _always_ acts first. 

He waits, ignores the tickling feeling that teases his face, compels him to break the façade. 

But the footsteps move on. When Draven dares to peek again, his brother is already gone. 

=-=-=--=-=- 

Wasn’t he supposed to feel _different_ this morning? 

Draven stares at his ceiling, paddling through the swampy memories of the night previous. _Why should he feel different_? The chamber maid had placed a basin of hot water on his dresser, as well as an extra kettle filled to the brim, polished to a sheen. 

No executions on Sunday, so he could do as he wished – well, more so than usual. 

His head pounds with a tell-tale throbbing that always followed a good night. _Damned cheap whisky_. No bed mate unfortunately, guess nobody was lucky enough to grab the honour of keeping his sheets warm. He drags himself slowly from the bed and about giving himself a quick wash. Shaves the rest of his cheeks, his chin, then takes the facial hair-oil and wax – only the best, specialty from Piltover – and grooms up his mustache. 

The silver mirror opposite him winks back. 

_Lookin’ good_ . 

Combs through his mane a few rough times with the brush, checking the mirror to ensure nothing sticks out. 

Then, reflected on the silver glass, he sees it; a hulking figure is standing by the window, its dark shape blocking out the light. _An assassin?_ Draven breathes quick, flicks around, hand on the knife at his belt. 

__

_Nothing’s there_ . 

Then his eyes flick back to the mirror; only his reflection staring back at him. 

_Huh. He’s still half-asleep – seeing things_ . 

He shakes his head and continues fixing up his hair. 

Even from his room he can hear a commotion on the streets. _What could possibly be happening in the capital_? It isn’t a holiday today, at least he is pretty sure it isn’t, and unless it was a wedding of some rich family, then he doubts anyone would ever be _this_ excited after leaving a church sermon. He doesn’t have a very good view from his window, can’t see much of the city, nor anywhere close to the Ionian sea. This would require a closer investigation. Draven pulls on his ‘ _third Sunday of the month_ ’ outfit out of his closet and dresses fast. 

There’s celebrations heavily underway on the streets when he goes out, music played by bards at every street corner with hats laid at their feet, yells and laughter a background cacophony the closer he gets to the peripheral walls. Vendors are selling ribbons and flags made from cheap fabric to the children, stick-food and alcohol being sold for double the regular price. 

Their military must be back from some civil campaign, or something must have _changed_. 

“Hey you,” he tosses a silver coin at a vendor and takes three meat kabobs. “What’s the deal with the crowds?” 

The man has sweat on his face, ruddy cheeks from the sun. Standing over a hot grill for hours had its drawbacks, certainly. 

“The Legion has returned, m’Lord.” The man says. “Word is they’ve discovered new, unclaimed land.” 

“From Shurima? The savage jungle?” Draven whistles, “Really? They weren’t gone long.” Darius would be busy soon, then, dealing with the reports from the excursion. Maybe he could drag him out for drinks and get the low-down, if _Lord paper-work_ didn’t occupy his time first. “Did they win? Wait – nah, don’t answer that. You wouldn’t be celebrating if they didn’t.” 

The vendor bows briefly to him. 

Draven wades through the tight crowds while gnawing at the kabob sticks, throwing the finished ones at his feet. A couple people would recognise him, gasp then try to make room for him to pass, but most others were too busy cheering and waving, eyes trained on the white sails of the large, Noxian war-ship moored in the distance. The city’s port is located leagues from the center of immortal bastion, a fair walk for the men to take while fighting such a crowd. There’s soldiers already uniformly marching down the gangplank to stand at attention in their platoons, squeezing tight like sardines to make space on the wharf, probably itching for the moment their commander relieves them of duty. 

There’s a light-tug at his pants, almost dismissible as the brushing up of the crowd to one more naive. Draven grabs without looking – _stupid urchins_ – and smirks when he hears a shriek. 

A boy of skin-and-bones, probably weighing barely forty pounds is holding a coin purse in his right hand, still clutching it with a death-grip despite that same arm being the one now being grasped by Draven’s handle-callused palm. 

“Well, well, well… What do we have here?” Draven lifts the boy up by the one arm, plucks his wallet back from the urchin’s dirty fingers, squints as he inspects the cretin. _Dirty, long hair, tangled into knots. Wild eyes_. 

“Leggo!!!” The kid wails, uses his free hand to desperately pry at the fingers wrapped around his elbow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, it was an accident – “ 

“Ah, shut yer whining. All the schmucks gathered here to pick from, and you choose to pickpocket _me_? The great _Dra-ven_?” Draven cackles, leans his face in close so their noses nearly touch and the kid grimaces, squeezing his eyes tight and turns his head away. 

“Pah, you’ve got some nerve, kid. Nerve, but no _talent_. You’ll be dead by winter if you can’t even swipe from an easy crowd like this.” 

He scans the throng around him, looking for any possible accomplices. _An older brother or sister, maybe a same-aged friend or two_. Usually street trash worked in small packs; this boy must have at least one or two kids out running with him. By this point, the soldiers were marching from the docks back into the city, carrying a bag each of their belongings. In response people were some-what dispersing, opting to walk alongside the men as they returned to the main part of the city. 

Then he spots Darius. 

Impossible to ignore, his _noble_ brother is at the very front of the party, side-by-side with some woman in padded armour and tight-fitting pants. 

_A war mason_ . He hopes it’s Tamara, she was always the _best_ to rile-up. The crowd seems to notice Darius now too; they start cheering his name, in a deafening roar much louder than his own praises in the colosseum. Draven scowls - there’d be no getting to Darius now, not with that many people clogging the way. _Later, then, when he’s back at the centre of the immortal bastion_. 

At the corner of his eye amongst the rolling wave of peasants and nobles he sees a top hat, clearly visible amongst all the other bare summer-bleached heads, drifting easily through the crowd for only a second before hitting his blind spot. It was black, slightly ragged. _Heading towards Darius_. The hairs on his neck stand straight up, a shiver runs down his spine section by section, making his sweat cold. 

Draven suddenly drops the street-child. It yelps and sprints away from him immediately like a spooked rabbit. Draven turns and starts pushing towards where he’d seen the hat, fighting to move through the crowd like a salmon struggling to jump upstream. _Why? It’s just some fading nobleman, right? Dressed up for Sunday_? But his palms are itching for his executioners axe, or even for a knife, and this instinct is _never_ wrong. 

Then, just like _that_ , the feeling passes. Disappearing like his brother’s back into the crowd. 

He laughs, harsh and loud, and some peasant lady next to him startles, jumping back to give space, pushing against the bustle unsuccessfully to escape his immediate presence. 

_What was he so on-edge about_ ? Sea air not agreeing with him, maybe. Each breath of the brine-scented breeze left a bad taste in his mouth, a coiling unsettling of his stomach. He shakes his head. 

__

_Had to be the kebabs. Stupid old man, probably made the things out of rat-meat_ . 

=-=-=-=-= 

“…Now, when we’re in there, don’t steal anything, don’t draw attention to yourself. Okay? We don’t have any tickets, if they ask for us to show it while inside, we’ll get kicked out.” 

“I _know_ , Dar. You’ve _told_ me already.” 

“Ok. Then what did I just say?” 

“… uh – “ 

“Draven!” 

“Don’t steal. Don’t stab anyone.” 

“Good enough.” 

He’s clutching Darius’ hand, being led through a crowd so thick, looking up only grants him slivers of the sky from all the skirts, big hats, and bodies in the way. 

“The circus hardly ever comes to here – we’re too far out of the way. You’re lucky.” 

He hears Darius talking above him, but it fades into the background along with the music and the crowds. The world feels small, it’s like he’s being crushed, trapped here. _If some kid tries to attack him, he wouldn’t be able to escape_. 

Draven squeezes his brother’s hand harder, pulls down on his arm when he doesn’t react immediately. Eventually Darius looks down, his questioning gaze holding Draven’s own beady green eyes for a few seconds. Then, his brother sighs. 

“Alright, come up.” He lifts Draven by the waist, lets him scrabble up onto his shoulders. Draven crows on his new post, Hands grappling tight around Darius’ forehead. 

From up high, it’s a whole other scene. The crowd is a bustling herd of all ages and all social classes with no order whatsoever, only goal seeming to be pushing towards the gargantuan, striped tent. Draven’s jaw drops – _it was so huge!! Bigger than a house – no! – two houses_!! No wonder they had to set up outside the city. 

There are vendors set up around the clearing as well, shouting at the crowd while waving their food items uselessly. The smell travels to him on a breeze – Draven has to wipe the drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I’m hungry.” He pulls on his brothers hair, tugging him towards the direction of the vendors. “Can’t we grab something outside first? They have stick meat! I love stick meat!” 

“Kebobs, Draven. They’re called kebobs, and they look pretty gristly. Probably made from rat-meat to save money.” 

“Rat meat? Yuck.” 

Darius laughs. “You won’t be hungry when we get inside, trust me.” 

The closet they got to the tent, the bigger it seemed. Eventually, the thing’s looming shadow was cast over them as well. 

He can finally see the opening of the circus tent, teasing a dark interior that hid any of its mysteries from view. The line is starting to narrow, now, eventually ending at two-by-two talking to a man in a purple suit who took coins with one hand and passed back pink pieces of paper with the other. 

“Look!” 

A startled gasp runs through the crowd as a man appears over the steeple of the tent. He seems to be walking on air about the perimeter of the tent. _Magic_? _They had magic here_? 

Draven rubs his eyes, but the man is still walking, plain as day to him and the pointing, gaping crowd. Finally magic man circles to the side of the tent the crowd is on, and it’s revealed he’s walking on large sticks, wooden poles strapped to his shoes. The man waves and smiles at the awestruck crowd, and Darius slips out of the line, pulling Draven off his shoulders and dropping him back onto two feet. They bend low and slip into the shadows, hugging the side of the tent while wading through the long grasses. 

“Dar, that man was as tall as a tree! Walking on sticks!” Draven couldn’t imagine being that tall. Even being as tall as his brother was unthinkable. 

“They’re called stilts.” 

“Stilts?” Draven rolls the word over his tongue, frowns. “Are you sure you don't mean sticks?” 

Darius briefly glances to either side of them, ducks back down and pulls out a knife from the sheath at his belt, then shoves it into the fabric of the tent, drags it down to make a small slit. 

“Yes. It’s _stilts_. Remember what I told you before about staying quiet. Now quick, let’s go.” 

Draven dives through the slit. 

Blinks to adjust in the darker tent; they’re… somewhere. Looks like a wooden roof above them, somehow. Darius leads him away, and they squeeze between the wall of the tent and the hollow, wooden structure to find themselves back amongst the crowd. People are still milling about near booths set up inside, some are holding sticks with what appears to be fluffy pink clouds attached to them. 

“Darius! Look, they have clouds! The circus is selling clouds for food! They _are_ cheap here! How did they get them down from the sky and on sticks?” 

“It’s a kind of candy.” 

“The clouds are made of candy?” 

Darius just chuckles. “Come on, quick.” 

The wooden structure they had been inside looked like a large set of stairs, or benches _stacked_ like stairs. A bigger version of the ones he’d seen before at the city’s amphitheatre. 

“They’re stands, everyone ends up taking a seat to watch the show.” Darius explains, pointing to the two other stands that frame the large, red-marked ring that was at the very center of the tent. “So you don’t have to be on my shoulders the whole time in order to see.” 

They get seats two rows from the front and wait for the show to start. 

It’s nothing he’s ever experienced before. 

A man with a top-hat and long-tailed suit comes out and shouts lots of things to the crowd, some big words he doesn’t really get, but understands that the next few hours will be _magical_ , or _wondrous_ , or _something_. There’s a woman with a beard, there are men and women who walk on ropes, or fly and jump through the air on high-set swings, and get a drakalops to jump through flaming hoops. 

Draven’s eyes are saucers, trying to absorb everything he sees like a hungry sponge and commit it to eternal memory. 

A bald man practically square with muscle picks up a horse while everyone cheers. Some reed-thin boy in blue lights a silver sword on fire and swallows it to the hilt, only to remove it completely unharmed. 

Then, the finale. Some man in dark, tight clothing is strapped to a large, striped wheel, while a jester covered in bells hops about juggling balls – _twelve balls, Darius had told him when he had urgently asked him the amount_ – with tight precision, throwing them nearly up to touch the ceiling. 

Then, the pretty lady with the white face paint and large purple feather in her hair throws an axe towards the juggler. The crowd gasps, but the jester catches it with ease and tosses it about along with the balls. He does the same for the second axe she throws, then the third, then the fourth. 

At five axes, the lady walks over to the side, bows and gestures to the crowd with wide swings of her arms, then retreats towards the wheel with the man still strapped on tight. She spins it hard, then backs away. 

“Is he…?” Draven wonders aloud, leaning half off the bench to watch. The crowd is all holding their breath with him, it feels the world has paused while waiting for this one pivotal moment. 

The first axe is thrown, the crowd gasps, a few women shriek. The loud _thwak_ as it hits the wooden wheel makes him jump almost off the bench, only to settle back on the edge of the seat with a nervous giggle. The crowd claps and cheers so loud his ears are deafened by the roar. The axe was stuck in the wheel right in-between the man’s legs. 

Another spin of the wheel, and the jester readies the second ax. The crowd goes silent, eyes trained on the spinning weapon. It’s thrown. 

This time, Draven doesn’t hear a _thwak_. The sound is softer, wetter. There’s screaming, but not from the crowd; it’s from the feathered stagehand. 

There’s red he can see now, dripping onto the ground underneath the wheel as it slows its rotation, but then he’s grabbed and held against a tense body, another hand immediately covering his eyes. Draven sharply inhales; _Darius_. 

“Dar! Let me see! Let me see!” 

He can hear a few shocked gasps, some strangled, high pitched screams from the audience around him, some sounds of kids crying while their parents vainly attempt to shush them. Draven claws at his brother’s hands, trying to peel the fingers off his eyes. 

_Success!_ He stares at the wheel, even as the circus performers are starting to gather around the scene, trying to free the body from the still-rotating target. The head is still attached, but only just, hanging down near his shoulder by the power of a strip of stringy muscle, head of the axe deep into the wood right next to it. 

_Looks kind-of like the rat meat._

The purple-suited man with the long coat-tails is calling for everyone to _remain calm_ , that he hopes they enjoyed the night _despite the accident_ , and if they could _please calmly leave in an orderly fashion_. 

“Don’t look.” Darius hisses at him, and the fingers return to cover his eyes. 

He ends up being carried piggy-back into town among the other unsettled, disappointed people. They get back to their hovel to find Quill waiting, still dressed as a scullery maid, with a pot of watery soup. Quill ladles him a bowl; 

“Did you enjoy the circus?” She asks the both of them, mostly out of formality; he doubts she’s actually listening. 

Draven nods eagerly, starts slurping at his soup loudly. Drops run down his chin, down his neck to stain his shirt. Darius gives him a questioning look but turns fast enough back to Quill and his own food, starting a boring _adult_ conversation that Draven immediately tunes out. 

Instead, he finishes the rest of the soup in a few final swallows, lays down the bowl and crawls out of their shelter into the alleyway, scanning the ground for three similarly sized rocks. _There_! 

They’re round-enough in shape, the three of them not even a third of his palm, but he grins ear to ear, starts tossing the three of them between both hands, back and forth back and forth. When he tries to add his third rock, the first one misses his hand and falls. Undeterred, he picks it back up and tries again. Then again. Then _again_. 

On the fifth try he manages to get all three rocks cycling in the air for a brief few seconds before two of them drop. Draven proudly grinning, looks back at Darius and Quill. Neither are them are watching him. 

Pouting, he picks the two rocks back up and tries again. 

“Hey!” He shouts over. “Watch me!” 

They look over and Draven starts to juggle again, this time managing three seconds before missing a rock. Quiletta claps for him, but his brother’s hands remained frozen. 

“Wow, keep it up!” Quill calls out. Draven bows to her like he saw the ring-man do earlier - one hand crossed over his front and the other folded behind his back -before turning to look at his brother expectantly. 

Darius is staring at him, brows lowered. His brother’s cheek sucks inwards briefly, but then puffs back out. 

“Good work.” He still looks stiff, but he was probably _jealous_. Draven bows to him too, then resumes attempting to juggle the rocks. 

He was going to become the best juggler around. _Just watch him_. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-==- 

“Yeah! An’ he was huge, near ten feet tall! Looked about one tonne, slimy bastard was lucky I didn’t have my axes with me. I’d have gladly fought him, woulda been far more worthy of me than any fights lately … “ Draven nudges the sullen-looking man next to him with an elbow, the man blearily looks up from his ale. 

“Uh huh.” He says back. 

Draven nods insistently. The dull mood of the pub matched the peeling paint of the walls. 

“People would tell stories about that! No – even better – write _songs_. If I took on such a beast and won – “ 

“You wouldn’t have.” A gravelly voice from behind him says and some of the sailors eaves-dropping chuckle. Draven twirls around in his chair, still holding his stein to his lips. 

“Who said that? You think I wouldn’t? Do you know who I am? I’m undefeatable!” He chugs the last half of the glass for emphasis, then slams it back onto the bar counter while licking the foam off his lips. Taps a finger against the table twice, and gets a bottle of rum next. 

_Ale was too light for tonight_ . 

At the corner of the bar a woman is draped in bright fabrics, like some Ionian sooth-sayer. Large bead necklaces and bracelets hang from every available limb, jingling loudly as she moves. She’s like a walking, talking maraca. The other patrons had mostly been ignoring her until now, choosing to spend their bronze pieces on booze than on empty promises of the future. 

“I know who you are.” She takes another slow sip of his own drink, finishing her glass as well. “Seems you don’t know about that creature.” 

She sounds like this woman subsisted half her life only on cheap-rolled cigars and liquor. That, or she was getting over a bad cold. 

Draven takes another generous sip from his rum, watching her sit on her stool in the corner, shuffling her cards. When he was a child, he’d stolen a talisman from a fortune-teller during new years. The thing had followed him into four street fights until Darius had discovered it and made him burn it. 

_Bad omens_ , he had said. _They’re made from the bones of thieving children_. 

Which, now, that he reflects upon it, was probably a lie. 

_What would a gypsy possibly be able to do against him_ ? If they had any power, the Noxian campaign against Ionia would have been a lot less successful, right? 

“What would an Ionian gypsy know about fighting monsters in Noxus?” 

He chugs the last few ounces in his glass, the heat spreading through his chest, burps, then fills it again from the bottle. Her hands remain around her own glass, though it’s empty. 

“The Riverlands are far from Ionia, though I’m honoured a man as known as yourself would think me to be _that_ exotic.” 

“Hah! Same difference.” 

She shrugs. 

“That ‘ _frog’_ you saw… he is the River-King. He is very real, and he preys upon souls who _hunger_. He offers you your greatest desire, though his demands in return are inordinate.” 

Her voice undulates like she’s telling some children’s story. Draven rolls his eyes. 

“You’re wrong. He didn’t ask for anything.” 

The gypsy stares at him for a few slow moments. Her lips are stained purple, he notes. 

“There is always a price,” She finally says, “ - and it is _always_ too high.” 

Draven scoffs. 

_The stuff in her make-up has addled her mind_ . 

Draven puts his back to the gypsy and moves onto another embellished tale of the Colosseum. The story’s barely half done when he’s interrupted by the loud scrape of a chair, then the bar seat next to him is taken. Draven looks back, prepared to etch his signature axe onto some fan’s knife handle, or roughly ink it onto a piece of parchment. But it’s the gypsy again, brown hair to her hips, stringed beads hanging off her dress jingly and rattling. 

“You again? Are you a fan of the Great _Draven_? Want an autograph?” Draven asks immediately, and the woman smiles at him, thin and mysterious. She pulls the deck of cards out of one of her many hanging pockets and shuffles her deck quick between both hands, the blue, water-stained backs of the cards flying easily between her fingers. 

“Share a drink with me, and I’ll give you a reading for free.” She plumps out her lips coyly, as if there was any appeal left in her thinned, middle-aged mouth. The purple lipstick didn’t make her look any more youthful. 

“Just a reading?” Draven raises an eyebrow. 

She looks about his age. Straight nose, longer face. Thick eye-brows. Not the best candidate for a one-time bed-mate, nor the groupie type. 

But his bottle is still half-full, and his brother had been too busy to join him tonight. A one-time thing. _He could be generous_. 

“Fine. Another glass!” He shouts, and a prettier face brings him another half-size tumbler in short order. The gypsy’s smile widens, her eyes flash yellow in the candlelight. She leads him from the bar-counters to an empty table instead, then pours her cup to three-quarters full and sets down the bottle with a soft _clink_. The cards she passes to him; it feels bigger than a normal deck in his hands. Heavier somehow. 

“Shuffle them.” She instructs, “Then cut the deck into three. After that, select ten cards from anywhere in the deck.” 

Draven shrugs, begins to crudely move the cards around. His hands were made for spinning, not for folding in cards. Sloppily he splits them into three, lopsided piles, takes three from the first pile, five from the second and then two from the bottom of the third. Drops them face down in front of her, pulls his hands back and waits. 

“Bless it be.” She says solemnly, closing her eyes and briefly folding her hands into each other. 

He waits for several long seconds. 

“Well?” 

Her eyes slide open, her oval pupils dilate slightly. 

“Let us begin. Tap the table ten times.” 

Draven did as she bid, finger driving harder against the teak each tap. A few patrons look curiously at him from the sound, but quickly return to their own business and their own drink. _Who would dare say anything to a glorious executioner? They didn’t last night when he wanted a fight, so they weren’t going to now._

Draven takes another gulp from his cup. 

“What now?” 

“Now it’s _my_ turn.” 

The cards get laid out in some strange shape. Two cards in the middle placed across one another, a single placed north, east, south and west of that, then lastly a line of four placed to the right of the diamond. 

“Shall we start?” She asks, lifts her glass and drinks half the amount in just a swig. “Ask your question, executioner.” 

“Question? I thought you were ‘gonna tell my fortune?” 

“Your fortune revolves around your question, m’lord. There must be something in your mind, something you itch to know. Nothing is off-limits.” 

_Easy. The one thing that really mattered_ . 

“How will I become known through-out the world?” 

She nods, like this is something she had guessed he’d say all along. The card laid vertical with the horizontal card placed over it is flipped first. 

It’s upside-down, a cobbler sitting on a bench while chiseling at a gold circle. Altogether there’s eight of the circles hung about the picture. 

“Eight of pentacles. Reversed.” She says. “You’re facing a lack of challenge, a lack of passion. You’re currently feeling uninspired, and therefore you have no motivation.” Then she flips the card laying across the eight of pentacles. 

It’s a beaded man with a crown and a sceptre, sitting upon a throne. 

“A king?” Draven twirls his mustache around his pointer finger. _He could get used to that. King Draven_ … 

“No. _The Emperor_.” 

“So I’ll be an Emperor? Eh, I can take that too.” 

The gypsy politely laughs. “Not quite. This card represents the obstacle standing in your way. At least, as you perceive it.” 

“An emperor is in my way? We’re ruled by a grand council of three now, not an emperor.” 

Her smile begins to draw tight at her cheeks. 

“It’s not a _literal_ emperor, it’s a symbol.” 

Draven sighs, rolls his eyes away and refills his glass. _Symbolism? What was this, school? What a waste of good alcohol this fortune-telling was._

“Uh huh.” He raises the tumbler to his lips. The lady straightens her shoulders, eyes narrowing. 

“It’s the principle of power – or fatherhood – a masculine figure that gives structure, creates rules and imparts knowledge. The emperor is rational and does what is for the greater good of the kingdom. This is the obstacle that you perceive in your way. Perhaps it’s your feelings of what ‘the responsible thing to do’ pushing against your selfish desires.” 

“ - Nah, that can’t be it.” Draven taps his chin. “It’s gotta be Swain, that sneaky bastard. I knew he was always holding me back, him and that secret organisation of his…” 

She’s unphased by the treasonous statement, refolding her hands and waiting patiently for him to finish talking. Eventually Draven stops stroking his mustache and looks back at her. 

“Is there more?” 

“Next is distant past.” She flips the eastern card of the diamond card formation. A door with five of those golden plates hung above it. 

“Five of pentacles. In your distant past, you were impoverished, in a place of insecurity, a place of great need. This in time changed to …” 

She flips the card at the bottom of the diamond. Another card with the golden discs, this time a large gate studded with nine of the fancy coins. 

“Luxury. Rewards, success. Some fame.” She nods knowingly, hand trailing across the table until it hovers above the northern card that made up the diamond. 

It’s upside down, showing a winged woman, hovering above a crowd of people while holding a golden horn to her lips. 

“In the best possible cumulation of your future, you gain no self-awareness, no reflection. Self-doubt and self-loathing will be your companions.” 

Draven snorts, sips till his throat burns. _As if. His story and his brother’s story is known. She’s not fortune telling, just stating the facts._ He can appreciate making up some doom-and-gloom for the drama. 

He gestures for the gypsy to continue, and she flips the last card of the diamond, the western card. There’s a man carrying a pile of silver swords, a campground drawn far in the background. 

“Seven of swords. Upright. You’ll accomplish your desire with deception and trickery as your strategy. There are consequences to this.” She moves to the line of four, starting at the one closest to him, then flips the seventh card. Two swords being held by a blindfolded woman. 

“Currently, you’re in a stalemate. You have a choice, though it’s not obvious to you, and neither option is appealing. Now, for forces acting on you outside your control…” 

The card above is flipped and reveals a picture he can recognise. A horned, winged man with the lower-half of a beast. 

_The devil_ . 

Draven stares at the card, not seeing the horns and wings but a top-hat and slimy skin of a frog. 

“You feel trapped, and unfulfilled, and you fell vulnerable to temptation. Much of the fate of your question is outside of your control now.” 

_The top hat, the smooth Bilgy accent, the slimy grip… had he shaken hands with a dream, or a demon?_ Draven grits his teeth, sips again from his rum to hide the clench of his jaw. _This was stupid. Why was he doing this again? For all he knew this gypsy was a spy, sent to sow doubt into the minds of the Noxian populace_ . 

The next card up reveals a man on a horse, six red sticks being held high in the air. ”This represents your hopes and fears. The Six of wands. You crave public recognition and success above all else, and you secretly doubt if your innate potential will ever let you reach where you want. This leads us to the final card, the true answer to your question.” 

_Coincidence, all of it_ . Gypsies were con-artists, able to lie on the spot and read a man for his weakness just as he could read a man to know his next move in battle. Looking about the room, it doesn’t seem like anyone else is listening in to her reading. _For once, he’s glad_. 

“Your final outcome.” 

He’s holding his breath. Stares at the final card like it’s a man with his hand primed over a scabbard. This sooth-sayer had a spell after-all, some enrapturement she could cast with her cards. His teeth grind together with a _scritch_ that runs down his neck. 

She flips the card agonisingly slowly. A tower, built to touch the clouds. Lighting is striking it, catching it aflame and knocking the crown off the peak of the building. People are throwing themselves from its windows, falling down to the abyss below. His stomach sinks with a feeling becoming far too familiar as of late. 

_Enough_ . 

He pulls out his butterfly knife, flicks it open and stabs down through the card, left it stuck an inch into the table below. The gypsy jerks her hands back as if scalded but regards him calmly, mouth a thin line, gaze unfaltering. She tilts her head lightly to the side, the question not needing to be asked. 

“You expect people to pay for this? You’re trash at your job.” Draven spits. 

“I simply read what the cards are saying – “ 

_She looks so innocent, so confused, so good were her skills are at deceit._

“ _Read_? Hah! You’re a hoax. Everyone knows Gypsies can’t _read_.” Draven yanks his knife back out of the table, folds it back together. 

The gypsy purses her lips, eyes narrowing to slits. 

“I sincerely apologise if my cards trouble you – “ 

“Whatever. I’m out.” He knocks his chair completely over as he stands and empties his glass of the last of the rum before slamming that down on the table too. 

The air’s too humid for night, does nothing to sober him up. But it gives him something to curse at while he returns to the core of the Immortal Bastion, feet taking the familiar path faster than he could recall the steps. To the right of him, a reflection on the glass of a bakery window – _Nine feet tall, flesh the colour of kelp, glowing yellow eyes_ – 

He twists around and the axe leaves his hands faster than he can think. It soars through the air and embeds itself into the general store mortar. 

_It’s just him_ . Nobody else was there. No other people, and certainly no nine-feet-tall frog-monster. Just in case, he ducks into any nearby ally, as if the fat thing could fit into some of those narrow alcoves. Sullen, he jerks his axe free from the building. 

_He is losing his mind_ . 

That had been a dream, hadn’t it? An alcohol-fueled fever-dream? _There was no such thing as demons_ – but still, the cards, the strange woman’s surety pricked at his mind like a pin. 

Screw that. He’s doing this _now_. 

Draven sprints through the narrow archways, past the stores, ducks under a few clothes lines until he arrives at the closest canal, axes in both hands. 

“Hey!” He yells, smacks his axes together with a loud clang, shooting sparks flying down to the earth. 

“Frog-man! We gotta talk! Show yourself!” 

The river continues to flow through the canal, mocking him with its nonresponse, even as he glares down into the dark water. Draven hurls one of his axes; it makes a big splash, but doesn’t do much else, sticking into the mud of the riverbed with the handle standing out of the water. He waits, chest heaving, staring down at the creeping canal. 

“I know you’re watching! Come on out and play!” His holler echoes off the water, travelling down the captive river, becoming the voice of some ghost. 

The seconds drag on; he spends _years_ staring at the bubbling water, waiting for a response, shoulders rising and falling. Half a minute passes in silence, and he curses, almost throws the other axe. _Nothing_. 

_All that from his great imagination_ ? _Hah! This is the gypsy’s fault_. 

An axe in the river, worth two in the bush. Draven squints down at the dark water. It’s worth getting back – these were his _lucky_ axes, and it wouldn’t do to leave them for just any old peasant to take and pawn off. 

He pulls off his tunic, drops it to the side. _If anyone looked out, they’d get an excellent show tonight_. 

The canal isn’t that deep – residents of houses nearby would drop a bucket to get water, it seems, judging by a raggedy rope drifting in the current below, hanging from a bronze tether hammered into the ground. His boots slip a little on the slimy rock walls of the canal, but he gets a hold of the rope and jumps down into the waterway with no issue. 

The water reaches mid-thigh. He wades the few steps, pulls his hand-axe out of the sediment, and turns back towards the rope. 

There’s a sound, like a large ripple. Like a big fish breaching the surface to send out a large splash; the force of the displacement knocks a wave into him that drops him onto all fours, clawing, sputtering back above water and on his feet. _His hair was going to be ruined_ – 

He drags a hand over his face, pushes the plastered hair out of his eyes. _Who pushed him?_ Draven swipes his arms blindly through the gritty water, walks a bit farther into the canal. Or rather, w _hat pushed him_? He wades forward until he’s standing in the middle of the river – it reaches a depth of his waist at most. His boots knock against what feels to be rocks, maybe a wine- bottle half-buried in the mud. 

He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but whatever it is, he doesn’t find it. 

Returning to the edge of the canal trench, he climbs back up, wipes the slime off his hands into his leggings and pulls his tunic back on. The axes return to their rightful place. 

In the distance he can hear some men, jeers and laughter disturbing the night. 

_Time to move on_ . 

Draven continues his pace while uncomfortably moist and dripping, part the sleepy-looking guards and back into the halls of the fortress proper. Once inside, the air seems more breathable, his skin less sticky, and his own wet-ness all the more clear to his body. 

_The Emperor, the Emperor_ – The card bore into his mind as his feet ground into the stone floors. A maidservant bows towards him and scrambled out of the way of his scowling treading, lest she got knocked over. 

“Get a bath ready for me, please and thank you.” He requests as he passes, barely sparing her a look. 

“Right away, milord.” 

_Ah, feels good to be home_ . 

If last night _had_ really happened, then he had met with a demon. _So what? What was the worst that could happen_? 

Nothing terrible, right? Hadn’t it promised to make him world famous? 

_The devil… the devil..._ He passes a gargantuan oil painting of the ancestral builder of the castle in the main hall. Some type of sorcerer, decked in a suit of armour. Display cases show ancient weaponry, metal maces and silver-bladed swords are placed for all to see. Too blunt of an edge now to use, but – still. Impressive. Not for the first time he thinks; _Whoever it had been, the architect had some class._

Movement, reflected in the sword he’d just passed. _Yellow tourmaline against the silver blade_ – 

Draven sucks in a breath, whips his head around. Not surprised this time that there again was nothing. No swords with those gems inlaid, no other person in the room. 

_Whatever_ . He’d drink something at his bedroom, bathe, then pass out. This night had been a bust, too. 

If _something_ had happened after all, and that’s saying _if_ , perhaps it might be worth _mentioning_. He passes the entrance to the Bastion’s grand library, and chuckles. 

_Like there’d be anything in there to help him with_ _this_ . What a useless room. 

The Grand Staircase looms before him. Upstairs to the highest floor had the war-room, several studies, bedrooms and washrooms of the more important members of the Trifarian Legion. His brother’s room was the last room on the Northern Wing. 

_It’s late._ He could send some servant as a messenger, easy. Risk sound like a semi-treasonous madman in a spoken message that could easily be gossiped through-out the entire castle, but was it worth it? 

_Definitely_ . 

Still, he finds himself stalking up the stairs, heading North. To the very end of the hall, until he meets the double doors. He knocks but doesn’t wait for a reply before pushing open the door. 

Double bed with minimal fringe, covered in the dark reds of Noxus. Thick mahogany writing desk in the corner, papers neatly stacked, nothing out of place from the furniture to the writing quill. But his _noble_ brother is nowhere to be seen. _If not here, then_ … 

…Some late triangle meeting, then. Draven backtracks down the hall to head instead to the centre of the bastion, to the room that overlooks the courtyard – if you could call it a courtyard. It was a drab, plain rectangle set in the middle of the fortress, but it looks up upon the twin towers that reach up into the sky, bridged over to the other twice so it looked like the seat of an ancient god. On the other side of the ornately carved double doors he can hear layers of voices, talking over each other in a senseless rabble. 

This time he doesn’t bother knocking, and just walks right in. 

The room is filled with people; Darius and Swain stand at the top of the table, some faceless guile representative in a grey robe to the left of Swain, the three of them frowning identically down at a map. Two war-masons are in the room, one with a cropped red bob of hair, the other with a tight black bun. _No Tamara. That’s no fun._

Outside of the people he immediately recognises, there’s also several military still wearing their armour and fatigues. _Came straight from the ship_. Their shoulders are a little slumped, but they still stand tall. A quick glance to their breastplate; _lieutenant general, and a captain_. Not too shabby of a gathering for this late in the evening. 

They all turn their heads to look at him when he enters, and Draven puffs out his chest, still dripping water occasionally from his hair onto the floor. 

“Are you here to listen in on the Ixtal reports?” His brother asks, voice booming in the sudden, chopped silence. 

“Nah,” Draven keeps his hand on the door. “I have to talk to you.” 

The room stills further, faces now looking briefly to Darius, before returning to rest on him. Draven taps his foot; _could he not go a little faster? Lives were on the line. Or rather, his time was on the line, but that was just as important._

One of the soldiers clears their throat. 

Darius’ jaw sets. He nods to Swain, and then starts to come toward the door. Draven forces a grin and bows to the rest of the room, and slides back out into the hallway, keeps tapping his feet. His brother joins him, shutting the doors to the conference room, then turns to him, face hard. 

“You couldn’t send a messenger?” 

“I thought about it, but I’d have to kill them after, which is always such a _bummer_.” Giving letters to messengers to courier throughout the fortress wasn’t his _style – also would require writing -_ so anything he used a messenger for was technically never private. _Verbal messages_ rarely were. 

“What is so important that you had to interrupt a meeting of the Trifarian council?” Darius raises an eyebrow. Draven waves his hand dismissively. 

“Listen, I _may_ have made a pact with a demon.” 

Darius’ face remains still as stone, doesn’t even blink when he asks; 

“Are you drunk?” 

Draven grimaces. 

“Yes – but that’s not _important_. Last night, I left the bar and wandered around for awhile, then towards the main river I ran into a giant frog and we made a deal. Then a gypsy told me that it was a demon, and he’s going to want something big as payment. I’m thinking our best bet is to kill it first, just in case. You in?” He wiggles his eyebrows. 

His brother is silent for a few long seconds. The torches are placed more sparsely in the hall; it makes the bags under his brother’s eyes seem starker. There’s more grey in his hair than the last time he saw him. Draven puts a hand to his own river-wet hair – _he didn’t have any greys yet, right? Pretty sure he didn’t_. Another moment, then his brother slowly exhales. 

“If that’s all, the council is waiting on me.” 

Darius briskly turns, his hand on the door to the conservatory. 

“Really? I say _we need to kill a demon_ and you want to go back to a boring triangle _meeting_?” 

“Good _night_ , Draven.” 

His brother opens the door and marches back inside; he sees a flash of the crowd at the table before the door clicks shut. 

_Looks like he was doing this alone_ . 

Shaking his head, goes to the South-West wing, thoughts of a wash and his bed almost blotting out the disappointment of his brother’s lack of enthusiasm. Truly, his position had sucked all the fun out of him. 

There’s eyes on him once he shuts the door to his bedchambers, though it’s empty of any life but himself. Not eyes like a blood-thirsty crowd, but rather an assassin in the shadows. His window is closed, shutters drawn. Nowhere to hide, besides his wall-length wardrobe. 

Draven spins an axe in one hand, creeping towards the large walnut wardrobe with his free hand out-stretched. _Who would be brazen enough to try to assassinate him in his own home_ ? 

He flings open the wardrobe door with his free hand. 

Once again, empty. 

Just his tunics, his jerkins and leggings, boots. Racks upon racks of his showy costumes. The rest of the room is mostly unchanged; his flute of wine is where he left it – and even better, there’s a tub filled with steaming water placed in front of the fireplace. 

No point dwelling on demons or pacts. His mind is acting up again. 

Washing up is easy. He dunks and wrings out his hair, rubbing the ivory bar of lime soap over his body, scrubbing the tattoos that adorned his body until the skin turns red. His hair he does last, gets it all slippery with the soap before leaning back and washing it all out. There’s folded sheets left on the chair near the fireplace, he grabs them and starts to towel off. It takes twenty minutes to comb out his hair - perfection takes time, after all. 

He slips on a silk robe, walks out into the hallway. _Where did that servant girl go_? _She needs to retrieve the bathtub. What’s with the help around here tonight?_ Normally the girls return a half hour on the dot to ask him if he needs anything else. _Something to complain about in the morning_. 

Returning to his room, he passes by the bath on his way to his bed. 

His body twitches as if being hit by a cold shudder, and he turns around, still as tense as a piano string. A smell of sea in the air, and the lanterns hung from the walls flicker out, snuffed by an invisible hand. 

The slosh of water pouring over the sides of his tub. Lukewarm, it hits his ankles and soaks into the damask-print rug at the foot of his bed. Draven dashes to near the bedside table, grabs his axes from their hooks on the adjacent wall and _stands,_ axes poised in hand, one already spinning around its ball bearings. 

A splintering of wood and nails – the bathtub explodes into broken strips of cedar, the remainder of the bath-water spilling to extinguish the embers of the fireplace. The room plunges into darkness. Yellow, sour and cursed peers at him in the dark. 

_The window_ . 

Draven fumbles with his hands patting over the shutters, trying to open the shades from the inside. Lifts the latch, flings them open with a triumphant _hah!_

Moonlight cascades into the room and brings the place under a silver glow. He can see the creature now, standing on the sodden rug, head bent slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling. 

Then, he hears it. The voice from the night before, it slides over him like a slimy tongue. 

“… _You called_?” 

“Our deal.” Draven says, the words coming automatically. He blinks; momentarily off-guard. His axe catches on his thumb and he stops spinning it for a moment. _They had made a deal, huh?_ This was real, last night when he was drunk at the bridge, the honeyed promises of world-wide fame. Of finally reaching his _potential_. 

The monster tips his top-hat, leans his head down in what Draven imagines is supposed to be a bow. 

“My apologies on my tardiness, but I’ve yet to retrieve your _payment_. Y’see, your brother is not an easy man to find alone.” 

“My brother?” Draven’s eyes narrowed. 

_What did Darius have to do with anything_ ? 

Then he remembers the gypsy, and the bearded man with a scepter on his throne, immortalised on a water-stained rectangle of parchment. _The obstacle perceived in your way_ … 

The creature straightens back up, returns the top hat to the crown of his head. 

“I never go back on a deal – a _man_ is only as good as his word, after all.” 

It grins, broadcasting its impressive line of sharp, triangular teeth. 

“Don’t worry your head child, – _I didn’t forget about you_.” 

His axes are already spinning once more. _Now or nothing, right_? Draven throws the first one out as hard as he can muster. 

It hits the side of the frog’s head, if he had ears to be had, they’d be deafened. But the monster doesn’t flinch; the axe bounces off harmlessly and falls to the monster’s feet. A webbed foot then steps on the handle, the creature’s mustache curling up as it regards him. 

“Havin’ second thoughts?” It asks, glowing eyes narrowing up into amused crescents. Draven’s throat feels dry – _this feeling, not against any one in the arena, not against any soldier he’d met in the army._ For once, there’s the dread pulling at the hairs on his neck, whispering at him to _run_. It’s like he’s a child again, looking up at a man three times his size, a snake that’d been poked one too many times. 

But he’s not, and this is _his_ house. 

He chucks the second axe, this time straight between the demon’s eyes. It clatters to the floor just as loud, just as _useless,_ half on the hearth. Might as well be that he’s throwing it at a wall of stone. Draven’s smile falters. 

“We made a _deal_.” The demon says, tone still genial, almost playfully amused. Doesn’t move any closer, but the space of his room seems heavy, space and time sliding and bending in to favour this monster, like a dense stone placed on a flat-sheet. 

Draven’s fists open and close. The demon is huge, easily a third the width of the room. 

_He could take him. Easy_ . 

The axe is only a few metres away. 

He dives forward. 

The thing’s laugh shakes the room. Draven’s hand gets on the handle of the second axe in less than a second, primed to roll to the side when there’s a stinging lash across his back. 

His body stammers, a full twitch. His fingers curl back, like the handle had shocked him. The axe clatters back onto the floor. His eyes flick up. The demon’s mouth is open, tongue hovering, semi-coiled in front of itself, thick saliva oozing down the moist muscle to drip onto the floor in slimy globs. _Had that been its tongue?_ What kind of creature thinks it could fight _him,_ with just its tongue _?_

A second lash of the whip-like tongue over his spine; his hand is shaking over the handle, if he could lift it, he could block the next attack - _just bend, his stupid fingers won’t bend –_

The creature laughs again, then strikes him a third time. 

Everything freezes. 

Draven slumps onto his side, nerveless, water quickly soaking into his silk robe. 

_Numb_ , his body is numb like he’s been stuck with a needle, like he’s been fed that mixture from years ago in the medic’s tent. His tongue can hardly drag itself down from the roof of his mouth, his lips partly stuck open. 

The demon takes a step back, foot no longer pinning down the first axe he had thrown. 

“A deal’s a deal.” He says, a hint of a growl under the faux politeness. “– an’ it saddens me t'think you would try t'go back on it! We made an agreement, between _men_.” 

Draven’s eyes flicker between the monster and his axes. This paralysis would wear off eventually, and he could manage to grab both in half a second, maybe _two_ seconds tops. First order of business would be to cut out the demon’s tongue, should be _easy_. 

There’s pounding at his bedroom door, a large fist slamming against the wood enough to make it shake. _Hard, no-nonsense, official_. 

_Darius_ . 

The demon moves quiet for a nine-foot giant, it takes one step closer to the door and stops, as if waiting patiently for it to open. _What was it doing? Not finishing him off while he could would be its biggest mistake._ His toes and hands now tingle _,_ like his appendages are reviving from being asleep. _The paralysis couldn’t last much longer._ He could outmaneuver this beast _, just wear off already!_

He hears Darius’ voice from the hall _;_

“The meeting just ended. I know you’re not asleep. I’m coming in.” 

The door opens, flooding in light from the hallway. Darius blocks most of the door, bulky even in day clothes, even without his heavy armour. 

_An axe still at his back, his brother was always prepared_ . 

Draven watches his brother’s eyes slink over the room; they focus on him and briefly widen, then narrow as they snap to the grotesque monster standing in front of him. He reaches back immediately for his battle-axe. 

He can’t speak, his mouth impossible of anything but gaping dumbly, poison making him an onlooker. 

His brother’s hand closes on the grip of his weapon and the monster’s mouth spreads up in an earth-devouring _grin_. Darius’s face has a look equal parts determination and disappointment that Draven’s seen a million times before, mixed with _something else_ , something that's made its home there since Quill's assassination. 

They lock eyes. Darius opens his mouth as if to speak – but then then the catfish lunges forward, jaw unhinged like a snake, striking with the inhuman speed of a monster. 

The axe doesn’t even make it off his back. 

In less time than a blink, his brother is gone, as simple as a frog catching a fly in the air. Draven watches the river-king swallow, his large gullet dropping to enlarge his stomach with a deeply satisfied sigh before turning back to face him. 

“I’ve done my part - your path is now clear. It was my _pleasure_ doing business with you.” 

He bows low one final time. 

Then the monstrous fish dives down into the stone floor as if it were a stream, form melting away once meeting the hard surface like it was never there to start with, sinking to a depth on a hidden path only it could access. 

Draven stares at the emptiness for several minutes, the silence of the room grating as his limbs tingled, feeling sluggishly returning to his nerveless form. Eventually he manages to push himself onto his feet, even as they shake like a baby deer’s. He walks to the _Spot_ , plants his feet upon it as if it would open a portal that could swallow him too, take him to the demon once more. It doesn’t. 

“Hey!” He shouts, vocal cords cracking as they too attempt to wake up. “Our fight’s not done!” 

No response comes back. 

“Are you a coward? Come back and fight me!” He yells louder. Retrieving his axes, he strikes at the spot several times, effort giving him nothing but chips of rock, ruined flooring and a blunt edge. He drops both his axes with a growl, and tears a hand through his hair, gripping at his scalp. Along with it a true ice dagger has slid through between his ribs, slowed thoughts running on loop, and he quickly looks away from the floor. 

The demon is gone. 

  
-=-=-=-=-=-==-=--=- 

Blood was in his eyes. 

A bare dirt-caked foot is pressed against his cheek, pushing his face against the icy gravel from yesterday’s snow. 

“Fucking brat! you dare steal my food?” 

Draven snarls, scratches at the leg, at the ankle. The foot presses harder, and another foot stamps on his arm, kicks deep into his side. 

“You need to learn to avoid nipping at the ankles of people stronger than you.” As the vindictive voice speaks his own knife is pointed at his nose, going closer and closer towards his right eye. Draven screams out then and flails, but a bigger hand holds his head and neck still. 

“Hah! Listen to him squeal!” a younger voice sings with cruel glee. “Not so tough now, are you? Careful, move too much and Rikard’s hand might slip! How many one-eyed orphans do you know running around here?” 

At that, Draven stills. 

_Noxian boys don’t cry_ , he thinks to himself. _Darius never cries_. 

But the first few slip free, and he feels a slap of humiliation much worse than the knife. 

“Look at him! Not so brave now, huh runt?!” The older taunts, and then his hand moves _down_. 

Stinging on Draven’s cheek, then abruptly heat rushes down his face, leading his skin hot then _very_ cold. It’s survival instinct more than anything else that keeps him quiet. He can taste blood in his mouth, just as it runs down his cheek. _Rikard’s doing it, he’s cutting his face, starting at the bottom eyelid and dragging down in a burning line._

_It throbs like a heartbeat._

One of the boys shouts in alarm, the stolen knife suddenly pulls away. Draven remains still, eyes clenched shut and body trembling. 

“Draven, get up! Leave!” 

He opens his eyes and his heart jumps back to life. Pounding in his ears, he scrabbles up and stares wide-eyed at the scene. Darius is fighting the other three boys, the youngest brother has the knife now and is trying to get in to slash, but Darius has longer arms and keeps knocking him away. The black-haired teen punches Darius in the jaw, but his brother punches back, harder. A loud crack, screaming curses, and he falls back, clutching a bloody mess of a mouth. 

The oldest boy with the ponytail ducks Darius’ next punch, wrestles him in a headlock. The smaller then comes in with the knife, yelling out a juvenile war call. They both had dark red hair – _brothers, a mirror of them_. He gets a cut on Darius; Draven sees the tunic slash open and the red pour out. _All he sees is red_. Before Draven realises it he’s already running at the opposing duo, jumps onto the back of the older teen nimble as a monkey and starts to bite at whatever he could reach, desperately _scratch at_ whatever he could reach. It distracts the older enough to drop Darius from the chokehold; then Draven feels the scruff of his jacket grabbed as the teen slings him hard against the stone of the closet wall. 

The world explodes in a flash of pain, and for a minute there’s no sound, just the blurry sky and the throbbing existence of his body. He struggles to sit up; there’s blood on the snow where his head had lain. 

He can hear his brother roar, by the time his vision stops spinning the oldest of the trio is on the ground, Darius kicking him hard in the stomach. He’s no longer trying to get up, but he’s groaning, alive with maybe a few broken ribs. The youngest screams like a banshee, runs at Darius one more time with the same fervor of a rabid wolf. He flinches when Darius fakes a punch to the head, immediately drops the knife as if a peace offering and sprints away to cower behind his brother’s body. Darius slowly leans down and picks it up, rotating the blade back into the handle. 

Draven struggles to his feet, limps to his brother’s side. The bloody pair stand together, panting heavily in the ally, hearts racing a mile a minute. _Darius is bleeding, still_. Big stain down his front, under his jacket. Draven looks at the red, and for once the flooding sensation of morbid glee isn’t there. His stomach is crawling, attempting to migrate up to his throat – but then his arm is roughly grabbed and Darius leads him away, half-limping as they race through the winding alleys and tall oppressive brick of the slums. 

No reprimands, no punishment. _His big brother is a giant, strong and undefeated_! Nothing could keep him down. 

They get back to their hovel of planks and stacked pallets before Darius collapses on their crude straw mattress, breaths weighted now that the adrenaline has left them. Draven watches, stands a few seconds alone before dropping to his knees and cautiously crawling forward like a timid dog to flop onto the mattress beside Darius’ flank, wary of a strike. The proofed canvas they’d strung over the roof and wrapped around the sides to block out wind and rain is crinkling; light steadily being blotted out by the falling snow. 

_Cold_ . His face still throbs, his _everywhere_ still throbs, the fiery pain ebbing and flowing like the sea. 

Snuffling, Draven turns in to face his brother’s body, buries his face in the shirt. They haven’t gotten to wash in awhile. _Smells like home_ . 

A hand cuffs him on the head, not hard enough to make him flinch before it flattens out, fingers running through his hair like roots of an old tree spreading out into the soil. 

“There are people in this world stronger than me, Draven. Don’t assume you’re above consequence because I’m strong here. You can’t always bet on me coming to your rescue.” 

He grumbles an insincere protest – Darius continues the head pats until the heavy hand drops to his back instead. _An anchor_. The throbbing in his ribs becomes easier to bear somehow. His own tiny hand snakes up to rest near the red stain on Darius’ clothes, spreading farther and farther out; a worry he couldn’t voice. Darius was _wrong_ , he was _untouchable_. But he wasn’t going to say so now, he was being let off easy! 

The elder inhales quick, then exhales _slow_. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Quiletta will fix me up when she gets here. Just be more careful, okay? Can you do that for me?” 

The hand on his back starts to move up and down, patching over his spine. It runs over a spot where earlier there had been a boot, and Draven pushes his face in onto his brother harder to mute his wince. 

“No one can defeat you, not when we’re _together_.” Draven mumbles instead into his brother’s clothes, and Darius barks out a laugh, harsh and quick before he feels a raggedy blanket be dropped over them both. A cold breeze blows through the pallets, and Draven tucks in closer with a quiet whine from the throat. Everything _hurts_. But his brother’s hand stops moving and the arm drops instead, sweeping to rest solidly behind his head, to line his back. 

He starts to drift, comfort sinking him into the dark to the beat of a solid, ever-constant drum. 

  


  


“ _That’s right. I promised - I’m never going to leave you_.” 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm probably going to attempt another young! story with lots of wacky one-shots if you guys are interested, just because there's a lot of potential there, and not much being done with it. I already have several scenes already written that were meant to go into this fic, but never got there. So if there's interest for it, expect it soon-ish.  
> Thanks again! See you soon.


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